Miss MacDonnell appears to be a formidable woman of many interests, including horticulture and beekeeping. I first encountered her in the article on
Mr. Love - the good man who loved both pinks and his bees. She gave him a hive of bees, and the article added she won prizes for her large honey combs at competitions. This article is a charming introduction to early 19th century Scotland.
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| The Late Miss Caroline H. E. MacDonnell |
I have added illustrations below when I could find them. Many are postcard images. There were none but the two portraits above (which I played with) in the British Bee Journal & Bee-keepers Adviser.
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No. 32.—Miss Macdonell, Of Glengarry.
(Extracts from the autobiography of the last of the 'Chieftain's Daughters' bearing the name.)
'I was born at Glengarry on Loch Oich, the highest part of the Caledonian Canal, on September 27th, 1814, and quite close to the site of the old castle, which was blown up by Cumberland in 1746—a few yards from the garden in which the bees were kept.
I am the fourth daughter of Colonel Ranaldson Macdonell, of Glengarry and Clan Ranald. My mother was a daughter of Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, Bart., and before her marriage, at twenty-two, lived in Edinburgh. There were seven daughters of us and seven sons; six of the latter died under three years of age.
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| Picture credit: National Gallery of Scotland |
We were a bright and cheerful family, full of mental and bodily vigour among the mountains and glens of our Highland home. My mother was a very clever person in many ways, and wag quite bewildered at her new mode of life, having to send a horse and cart to Inverness (forty-two miles) for some coarse needles the housekeeper wanted: but many other useful articles came back in the cart.
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| River Garry |
My father's birthday, September 16th was always celebrated with Highland games. They generally took place in a field about two miles from the house. We children walked with our governess, the elder members drove—which sometimes seemed a very perilous undertaking, as they had to cross a wooden bridge over the river Garry, which used to shake violently.
The horses particularly disliked the sound it made; my mother was quite afraid, but my father was always determined that horses and servants should do their proper work, and her only relief was to patter her feet on the floor of the carriage, as he said screaming both frightened the horses and made the servants useless.
It was a great day for us children: tents were always pitched for shelter. The feats were splendid, and very different from what they are nowadays.
I do not remember the weight of the stones or the hammers thrown, nor the weight or the length of the caber-tree; but the leaping was admirable over a pony's back, probably thirteen or fourteen hands high.
Our piper used to tell us that he had performed the feat of leaning in and out of six herring-barrels placed close together in succession.
After the games there was always dancing to the pipes in the evening, and the foresters and deer-stalkers did dance well. No one could appear at those games and dance, but in the Highland dress, kilts and plaids, looking beautiful.
When any entertainment took place on a Saturday my mother was most careful to put the clocks forward twenty minutes, so that the house should be cleared before twelve o'clock.
A "deoch-an-dorius"—a parting glass of whisky —was given to each man in passing out.
(Note: Modern spelling is deoch-an-doris.)
About 1824 the Caledonian Canal was opened, and after this our first boat-load of coals arrived at Glengarry; formerly nothing was burned but peat. My father had a large and handsome barge built, and that same year I remember seeing the first two hives of bees arrive. My father was very anxious for everything that would ameliorate the condition of his people; he had an intense liking for all national things, which I inherited.
We three schoolroom girls were as wild as young goats on the arrival of a new governess from Edinburgh. Before she got to the front door a large deer-hound seized her muff and took it from her; her eldest pupil appeared at once and presented her with it, after scolding the dog in Gaelic.
Without shops, the advent of a packman was hailed with delight, and justified our vanishing from the presence of the governess. The only other excusable occasion was a dogfight: at the first sound we were off and in the thick of the battle, to rescue a visitor's dog from the fangs of the deer-hounds; we had many of them, my father being very fond of deer-stalking.
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| Sir Walter Scott with Maida |
It was he who presented Sir Walter Scott with "Maida", his favourite stag-hound, named after the tattle in which my uncle, Lieut-Col. Sir James Macdonell fought. It was this same uncle who held the gates of Hougoumont at Waterloo.
This dog was Sir Walter's chief favourite, was often painted along with him, and died at Abbotsford in 1824 and was buried underneath the "leaping-on-stone", with this couplet inscribed:—
"Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore,
Sleep soundly, Maida, at your master's door."
We were in the habit of going to Perth for the winter. One season, in the end of November, my mother, fearing more snow, ordered twenty men with shovels to start early to clear the road, but more fell after we left. Papa sent a message from the first carriage we were all to get out and walk. One of the maids fell into a wreath, and papa made a joke of her requiring two handsome fellows to pull her out. The frost was very keen, and our wet clothes froze; the fringe at the foot of my brother's Glengarry in Waverley tartan trousers was hanging in icicles, and my second youngest sister was ready to cry with the intensity of the cold, but was told it would be worse for her then, as the tears would freeze on her cheeks.
My father started for Edinburgh with my two eldest sisters, a great storm arose, and the steamer was wrecked. On leaping on a rock he struck his head, and he died of brain fever that night (January 17th, 1828), and was buried on February 1st with all Highland honours. To the admirers of Scott it was well known my father was the prototype of "Fergus McIvor". His character was such as Sir Walter delighted to portray; and in the Procost, by Gault, there is an account of my father at the coronation of George IV.
Fergus McIvor is on the right...
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| Merchiston Castle |
After our father's death we came to reside at Merchiston Castle, near Edinburgh.
We soon came to consider the confinement quite dreadful, and began to wonder how long it would take us to run some three hundred miles back to Glengarry again, so we measured how often round the battlements made a mile.
We started with as many bits of wood in our hands, leaving a piece each time we came to our starting-point. On these battlements we might sing our Gaelic songs as much and as loud as we liked. One day our governess was told by a friend that he had been quite startled when walking on the road by singing in the air, which no doubt emanated from the battlements.
Perhaps my first bee-memory was at Glengarry, when I saw a swarm proceed from our green-painted bee-house, and watched them taking up their quarters in the roof of the mansion-house, whence they were with some difficulty dislodged by the gardener.
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| This is Cotton's book. Charles Cotton. |
I remember seeing a large crock of Glengarry honey when we lived at Merchiston Castle in '28 or '29.
We came to live in Bute in '41, and in '46 we bought a couple of hives near Mount Stuart, and used Cotton's book as our guide. Our efforts in bee-culture at that time were not successful, after a long and varied experience, purchasing all sorts of hives and quite overloaded with bee-gear.
In 1878 we made the acquaintance of the gentleman who writes in your columns as "A Renfrewshire Bee-keeper," and he kindly invited my sister and me to pay him a visit, which we did, and he showed us his apiary, and explained everything to our entire satisfaction.
We saw his Scotch-made embossed wax machine, which he told us was stereotyped from the original German sheets long years before the American rollers were invented, or the words "Comb Foundation" coined.
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| Stewarton Hive |
His apiary consisted chiefly of storified colonies, cultivated with success in Scotland centuries before the word "Tiering" was invented in America. All the combs in his hives were movable, in frames or bars, and in the shallow supers as well. His very beautiful watering device we admired much, as well as his original rotating Observatory hive, which had great attractions for us.
My sister was the first to set up a Stewarton colony, and I followed. They proved a great success, and we had the pleasure of exhibiting our beautiful supers at Rothesay Show.
The "Renfrewshire Bee-keeper " kindly gave us in 1880 the use of his trained boy, and he quite charmed us; so much so, we begged the loan of Peter again, and for that Saturday invited a few friends to a garden party at Lochna-Gaoidh to witness his doings.
The little fellow gave a few puffs of smoke from his brown-paper roll, doffed a cover, drew the slides, and explained it was necessary to give the bees time to supply themselves with food, then raised the frames, and handed them about, showing the queen and all the internal economy of the hive—and such an expert was he that he restored everything to its original condition without a sting to any one. Eleven years have sped past, and though Peter Kerr is now a full-fledged engineer, he comes to assist me still.
My Renfrewshire friend kindly ordered for me a similar Observatory to his own. It was setup in the drawing-room at Loch-na-Qaoidh, since removed to my present house in Rothesay. Nothing affords me greater pleasure on a holiday than having the teachers and children of my initiatory school up for a bee-lesson—our School Board teachers and children, too. They are then shown how loyal the bees are to their queen, forming a body-guard around her, court etiquette practiced, retiring backwards before her. Each bee is prepared, if need be, to go forth and lay down its life "in defense of Queen and country".
There are no strikes in the beehive. They are too clannish for that; short shrift for the agitator there. They could not brook to see the honey drift past their own into other waxen kingdoms.
